


Superficial Luck

by sikillgard



Category: Halo, Mass Effect
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sikillgard/pseuds/sikillgard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There seems to be a mistake. Saving the humanity once is apparently not enough, as the invisible hand would have it. The same hand that kept Noble alive and  join the adventures of Master Chief, now intends for a new narrative to occur. Does any of the affected has a say in it? No, of course not. The narrator is merciless; there will be no rest for the weary, no hope for the weak. There's a galaxy to be saved, and Shepard won't refuse two who did the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose I ought to say something. But what should I say? This work is inspired by XXX? All rights belong to XXX? It would be informative, but it would also be detracting. Then again, a good writer would keep it proper without a fault. But what am I saying? I should leave this tangent. You should start reading.
> 
> Post-ME2, Post-Halo 3 (slight AU)

* * *

 

The alarm isn’t working, she tells herself. The clock is wrong, another part whispers, there’s still plenty of time left. She doesn't turn her head to check. She doesn't want to. What if it's time to go? What if she has to get up? No, it's far better if she doesn't know. Besides–

The blanket feels heavy, weighing down like a nailed-down net. Cold sweat dots her cheeks, down her navel and under the chin. She watches it, dripping from her face, steadily, past her eyes, into the wetting pillow. The fluid is slow, sticky, and monotonous, nothing like her frantic heart, nothing like her beating chest. It won’t slow down not until long after. And even after, when it isn’t her heart, it’s her head, racing, trying to process what happened, trying to forget. She wants to get up, to get out, but she won’t. Nothing disbars her, nothing chains her down, but she can’t – paralyzed. She’s awake in her grave.

Someone calls her, someone distant. Shepard doesn’t care. She's had enough, enough of the outside, enough of people. She’s tired of the Council cockblocking her, tired of keeping together a dysfunctional band of killers, tired of everyone trying to kill her. She’s sick of Saleon and his experiments, sick of Cerberus and their "good intentions," sick of the Reapers and their patently unbelievable coming of doom. It's too much. She wants to forget it all. She wishes that Mindoir never happened, that no thresher maws lived on Akuze, that she's not on some kind of crusade to save the galaxy again, and again, and again. 

“….epard,” the voice becomes clearer, surprisingly inorganic. Shepard tries to block it out. She pulls a pillow over her head, muffling herself. Then she realizes that the pillow is soaked with sweat. A groan escapes her, an announcement to the world that Shepard’s awake. Grabbing the pillow, she twists its fabric in frustration, and whips it across the room. What she hit, she doesn’t bother to look; she doesn’t care. But the lack of oomph or breaking glass means – at least – nothing’s broken.

“Shepard,” EDI calls again, with the same monotone she has used many times before, “we’ve detected an unusual anomaly in the system gravity well. Jeff and the crew have requested your presence on the bridge as soon as you’re able."

Lately, Joker often tells the crew that she’s becoming more human, both mentally and audibly. But everyone else disagrees; Shepard doesn’t think so either, although she’s not sure if Joker’s just spending too much time with an AI, or everyone on the Normandy can scarcely believe that EDI is becoming more and more sentient than she already is.

What she does know however, right this second, is that a single word hasn’t been uttered and EDI already knows she’s listening.

“Is Cerberus’s database that long, or are you just good with people?” Shepard interrogates. Her voice, weak with sleep, sounds more like a question directed at herself than to anybody, least of all, an AI speaking from a hidden speaker on the ceiling.

“Only with those I know,” EDI exonerates. If she has a face, Shepard swears the AI is smiling. “Also, now that you’re awake, Garrus would like to remind you of the retrofits he made to the Mako. He suggests that it would be to your interests to review the changes." There is a pause. "Again, whenever you’re available. “

Shepard turns her head skywards, stuffy downs sliding away. The white ceiling is a piece of work, courtesy of Cerberus’s opulence. The shiny finish is marred by a glossy covering, rendering it opaque. Her reflection is a mess of shaped black and pale tan, surrounded by wavy silk clouds that are her blankets.

She swings an arm above her head, covering her eyes. “Thank you EDI,” her voice a little nasal, “I’ll be up in a second.”

Seconds past by, no response. When she thinks it’s clear, Shepard lets her mind go blank. It becomes a pit without hole nor void to glean a meaning from. It is nothing – nothing to say, or describe. Her breath and the imperceptible ship’s hum are all that’s left. The guppies in the fish tank bob incrementally up and down, unaware of their minuscule existence. The cabin is a scene that, if left to its own devices, would stay forever. Stasis, as she envisions, as blissful as it gets.

“Shepard….”

“Argh! Alright!” The spell is broken; she snaps. In a violent motion, Shepard leaps up from the bed, sweeping aside the pillows, the covers, the sweat. “I-I’m up, I’m up.” She swings off onto her feet by the side of the mattress, fast-walking to the wardrobe and gives the detach button a solid thump with her fist. The resulting hologlow lights up her figure amidst the dim quarters.

“Joker was right,” she mutters, stripping out of her pajamas, “you do sound like mother.”

“Good morning Commander,” is EDI’s pleasant reply on the cold, auspicious day.

***

_"If we don't make it."_

_"We'll make it."_

_"...It's been an honour serving with you, John."_

***

A glass helmet, opaque and yellow by design, transparent from her perspective. It is blank, void of information. It irks her. Where is the ammo count? Her mini-map? What happened to the shields? How she came to know this? Well, for starters: she's wears it. Once upon a time, she remembers her own dull surprise when a marine remarked how she sees the world without sensors, and general confusion ensued on both side. These are Noble's first thoughts as she wakes, weightless and silent.

When she comes her senses, the first thing that she takes note of is that she ended up on the far end of the room. The jump apparently was a violent one, enough to render her unconscious. It is dark; lies, it is pitch black. Bereft of saturation except for the colour teal. The bluish hue which shines through the debris, rays of a lonely beacon. It stems from a single point, situated on the other side of the room.

Still floating, she takes a glance.

The AI's hologram stares out the only window inside the dark room. She's standing upright on top of the stool-like platform, still, like the image she is. The only light in the room pours from her luminescent blue figure. Her ceremonial regal robe, usually flowing, stands idly by. Flashing jewelry and heavy makeup adorn her body. A small crown sits neatly on top of her wrapped hair.

In the cold, dead space that she's now aware of, Noble Six's own armour responds intact, properly sealed and providing emergency oxygen. It gives the spartan a reassuring ping as the HUD comes back online. She is surprised and pleasantly pleased to see a masterwork of human engineering survive and remain remarkably airtight after weeks of sustained warfare. Feeling a little sore, she stretches her body, rotating her left arm in large, exaggerated swings, careful of her application in the clustered, claustrophobic room. The Armory, once messy, is now a minefield of lethal weaponry, explosives, and sharp wreckage. Satisfied. Noble, with a twist of her feet, she launches herself to the AI. A slow, weightless projectile seemingly checked by some invisible rule of motion that has affected all that is physical.

"We're alive," says Noble, nearing the glowing hologram.

"Quiet, I'm trying to imagine a different result," retorts Queen. She bears an English accent, light and middle-aged. The AI gives a sideways glance. Her face is sharp, with a thin nose and wide eyes. "Without you alive."

"I feel so wanted and loved," Noble deadpans. She picks up her gray assault rifle, dusting it a little. Her go-to weapon of mini-destruction now sports a new scratch on the top of the trigger and a pair of deep marks on the front bulge. Hardly the worse damage ever to occur.

On the pedestal half Noble's height, the AI turns to face her, head tilted down. "Well," she starts, "welcome to Purgatory."

"If you said Hell I still wouldn't believe you," Noble snidely replies. The ship, apparently having lost its artificial gravity, is silent. Dust, glinting chips, and all other objects are now floating listlessly around them. A leaking gas tank floats next to a wall, spilling its brown content over it. A row of armaments is unceremoniously heaped into a corner. Noble mag-locks her boots onto what she thinks is ground floor, the resounding clanking absent in the cold vacuum of space. "What happened?" she asks.

"We made it, for one," is Queen's reply. "Are we in Sol? No. But we're not at the Ark either."

Noble raises an eyebrow, frowning . "Okay... What happened to the ship?"

"Severed, and I'm guessing that's got something to do with why we're not home. What you're standing on is the intact mid-section of The Forward Unto Dawn." Queen shakes her hands out of her robe, threads and adornments rippling into a cascading pattern. She rubs them together. "Everything else? Either gone with the wind or annihilated with the Ark's destruction. Can't be sure."

"Huh." Noble begins walking out of the armory. With magnets, every step is a slow affair. She pushes through broken screens, detached panels, ammunition casings. A small light nesting on her shoulder lights the way. "To think we made a mad dash for this..." she mutters.

"Don't get me down too," Queen exclaims behind her. "At the very least, try to remember that in the process, we've stopped the Prophet Truth from firing the Ark, and the Flood from having sweet cakes . I'd say: we've saved humanity."

"He saved humanity, thank you."

"Let's be politically correct and say _they_ saved humanity, yes?"

Inside her helmet, Noble rolls her eyes. Queen's hologram within sight, in another pedestal closer to her, smiling. Its appearance lights up the darkness. "We're very alone on this wreck. I doubt you'll find anyone else here."

"What? Rock fell? Everyone died?" Noble, amused by the implausibility of their predicament, couldn't bring herself to sober up.

"Can't say–we're only on a part of the ship. Arbiter went up to the bridge, and Chief stayed in the aft Cargo. It's very possible that we're the only ones stuck in an anomalous slipstream event.

"Anomaly, eh?"

Coming up to a door that reads "C-132," Noble puts down her rifle, slips her hand in the crack, seemingly effortless in pulling open the powerless airlock. Her small light shines through dust and sediments to illuminate a small cabin, furnished with a ruffled bunk, scattered books, and a miniature sofa. With her feet locked to the floor, she "sits," angling into a position that she doesn't float off, while being suitable to her liking. There she lies, not quite resting.

In a moment, Queen appears on the in-room hologlobe. It projects a slightly larger hologram, one that reaches to Noble's shoulders. She crosses her arms, her face waiting expectantly at the spartan.

"This anomaly..." Noble accedes.

"Well," Queen begins. She uncrosses her arms, straightening the folds on her elbow. "I'd reckon that we've cancel—"

"The next episode for your favorite show?"

"...the requisition you ordered back on Earth." The AI glares at Noble 6, who, behind her helmet, grins a shit eating grin. "And the rebate thereafter."

That gets to her. "Okay there, Vicky." Noble throws up her hands in mock fear, "No need to talk about my shopping. I can always ask for more, but the coins are good luck." She made gestures using her arms. "Not for myself, you see. I have a family to feed."

"Uh huh."

"We can totally discuss my spending allotment; all you need to do is to check in with my commanding CO."

"I recall that he's dead."

"Yuuup!" Noble leans on the sofa, gloved hands clasped behind her helmet. "Consider my finances well and truly fucked. Until we get to a UNSC depot, some pencil-pusher's gonna have some bright idea to burn that mysteriously growing pile of paperwork."

"And we can't, seeing how we're stranded in space." Queen makes the effort to rub her holographic forehead. "Look, the jump must've been—"

"What was that about reckoning and cancellations?" Noble asks, oblivious. The AI stops, staring at Noble for a full second—an immensely long time to them—before crossing her arms.

"On second thought, maybe I shouldn't tell you anything, seeing how irrelevant and unimportant it is to our current situation. I wouldn't want to burden you with such complex thoughts."

"Alrighty." Noble smoothly takes the insult, closes her eyes and sinks into the sofa. She relaxes under the intense gaze of Queen, aware that the stare bore straight through the reflective glass of her helmet. She's not surprised if the AI expected her shenanigans, and simply played along for the sake of getting things done as fast as possible. It probably has her records and profiles and everything, maybe her actual service report. But it doesn't matter; Noble doesn't care. As long as it lifts the spirit, she'll troll the AI as much as she likes.

Queen takes a moment before speaking again. "As I was saying–before being rudely interrupted: We are stranded." She waits for a response, none forthwith. "Would you like to know why?"

This time, Noble opens her eyes. "Yes." The giddy episode is passing; A certain somberness returns.

It smiles, obviously pleased with progress. "Before we jumped, the portal was failing in tandem with the destruction of the Ark. Our ship was in the process of entering the slipstream as it collapsed."

"And we went through the jump," says Noble.

"We didn't. Records that I have of the ship engine signatures prior to the Ark's destruction indicated that whatever happened there, it was no jump."

"So we're still in the same place."

"No, not like that, we – ugh." Queen rubs her forearms."To put it simply: we`ve traveled somewhere not by conventional means. The jump process was premature. Jump sequence was initiated, but before the process fully matures, the slipspace hole was hit by the Halo wave, causing an anomaly to occur and the hole to collapse. This phenomenon destroyed the ship, annihilating key components of the Shaw-Fujikawa engine, thus, stranding us. I-I don't know what the failure of the portal truly did to the ship, why we aren't atomized bits. There's the usual oh-so-scientific theories, but, like all unknown variables, they all lack evidence. It did something to the ship; I know we're not in Ark space anymore, but somewhere else. We did not jump – the engine records are proof of that. But it transported us to another part of the galaxy, somewhere that is not within light-years of Earth or any known coordinates of civilization.

Noble ponders on it for a moment, compartmentalizing. "We're stuck," she finalizes.

"I don't blame you if none of this goes into your petty head. We are stranded, with contact at a literal unknown that could range from the next minute to the next century. Unfortunate that we are left inside a piece of the frigate; otherwise I could've attempted to pilot it to known space." Queen looks out the window of the depressurized room, the stars of the universe twinkling with gaiety. Her eyes are no longer hard, having softened to a certain mellowing. "We have no working cryogenics," it comes out in almost a whisper.

Noble stops, fingers midstride in motion. Now completely sober, she quickly looks at Queen in worrying clarity. "The power-"

"Like I said, the power died with the engine," Queen says, voice clearly agitated. "Secondary and Tertiary power sources are on the ship's fore and rear, gone like the rest." She returns Noble's stare. "The cryo chambers won't work, not by themselves. Unless you somehow bash the engine enough to return it to life, or discover a completely new reusable power source unknown to mankind, I'm afraid you'll be waiting for rescue in real time."

Noble absorbs the information, her mind rifling through the possible scenarios; not that there's many options, as it boils down to two things: she gets rescued, or she dies from starvation or lack of air. The odds are nonexistent. what are the chances of jumping close to civilization, when they could be anywhere in the cold, dead universe? She wants to sigh, but unable to because of the multitude swirling thoughts in her mind. Rationalize, filter into segments. Survival. "Are there, uh, any rooms still pressurized on this side of the ship?"

"There are. Several remain sealed despite the catastrophic destruction," Queen fidgets, "I can get you inside one with the remaining power left in the system, if that's what you need.. Certainly, there's bound to be emergency food and supplies scattered around the ship."

Noble feels her face turning glummer, she can't help it. "Even those will run out eventually."

"Yes. If anything, it only pro-" Queen stops. She takes a look at Noble , her eyes searching for something. Her expression doesn't change, but her fidgeting stops, and she casts her gaze down, voice quieter. "If anything, there's a closet of engineering tools down in level J, shaft fourteen. You can try to scavenge a drive and batteries from the power nodes connecting to the engine. Rig it up to the transformer for the cryo chambers, and spin enough power for the tube to work long enough to get you into stasis."

"How does that help? I'll die when I eventually unfreeze."

"Not so. Remember that the chamber is sealed as long as there's no leak in the tube or the cryogen container. We're in space. It'll always be cold, keeping you cool. Ok, I can't monitor you and keep the Cytoprethaline and other pharmaceutical drug levels balanced, so you'll most likely suffer extensive damage from freezer burn. But if it means you can wait forever to be rescued, it's a far better fate than death."

Noble looks upward, feeling unable to move. It might work, if she can remember her engineering lessons. That was a long time ago, when everyone was alive, before they got their implants. They weren't expected to actually put this skill to use, but all of them put it memory nonetheless. With Ambrose as their overseer, nothing was glossed over. He taught the most useless information as though it was the single most important lesson of their lives. She remembers the bald heads of her fellow Spartans bent down in concentration, the snapping bark of the instructor...

Something is wrong. This is simple; Noble's skill may deal in death and warfare, but there's no question she can improvise some UNSC equipment. Then why has Queen leave the idea until now? It's not that the AI has simply forgot, as it would take nothing short of rampancy to have her fall into such inefficiency. Is it not as safe an idea as it seems to be? What other options could she be thinking of? Noble looks at Queen. She looks at her small blue figure, her immobile shrunken pose, no longer fidgety or haughty. Her face forms an almost content image...

Noble blinks, almost forgetting she is able to. "Queen," the she asks, "What happens to you?"

The AI looks up at Noble. Her hologlobe fizzles once, twice. Then she smiles, the wide shape and radiance no less similar to a mother reassuring her child, telling it that everything will be alright. "I die, I suppose."

"Why," Noble instantly replies. She narrows her eyes. "You, an AI, can't just inexplicably off yourself."

"Why?" Queen's image fizzles again She puts her hands behind her back, straightening herself. Noble notices that the hologlobe light is significantly weaker than before. "There's not enough power, that's why. Not even from the batteries needed to jump-start the chamber," Queen exclaims. Her smile is gone, replaced by an indignant frown. "I'll need all my routines flushed, myself included , if it means giving you the chance to get into stasis. And after that, keeping the drugs administered for as long as possible. And that's only using the barest amount of power leftover."

Noble shakes her head. She rises from the couch. Standing at two meters high, and in Spartan armour, she towers over the small pedestal housing Queen's miniature hologram. "You kept this from me."

"Naturally. You wouldn't go with it otherwise. What? How dare you look at me like that. I'm fulfilling my function by dying for you." Queen flares.

"How noble," says Noble dryly, "and what would you do, if, suppose that I release you from your obligations?"

"Nothing! What? do you think I'm with you just because I made a bloody promise with Halsey?" Queen bares her teeth. Something's happening to her hologram. Is that red Noble's seeing? "For god's sake, I'm just an AI. This isn't any more different than leaving Jorge on the ship.

Noble takes a step forward, thudding hard on titanium floor, her own anger snappily rising. "No, not like Jorge," she says quietly, " nothing like leaving him."

"Then get down there. Find the tools." Queen commands. Her hand swings out to point at the floor, drapes billowing in wake.

They stare at each other, eyes interlocking, machine versus flesh and blood. "No." Noble says.

Immediately, the AI backs down. She looks away, her fight gone as if it never happened. Confused, Noble almost says something, but then Queen swivels back at her. "You're too stubborn," she says. Her voice dulled, but still high in frustration. She looks up high at Noble, fists tight. "I'm surrounded by stubborn people, the lot of you. Why can't you be obedient like the dogs you're trained to be."

Noble's hands loosen. A breath escapes her; to the AI, it probably sounds much like a sigh. She turns, away from the pedestal, half a step. Her hand lifts, fingers that hold weapons, now attempting to hold an image of an artificial construct.

"Look at you," Noble finds the restraint to whisper. But for the effect of being in nowhere, her voice booms. "Aren't you the hypocrite?"

Queen doesn't answer, although Noble can guess what she thought of her words by her sullen, barbed look. The absence of the dead ship's usual humming becomes increasingly irritating. Noble's ears pick up a ringing in the hum's place. Her visor now fogs at every breath. A few warning lights begin to holler, though not much of a concern yet.

Are they actually dead? The thought suddenly strikes her. Is this an imagining of the future beyond the last moment of their lives? A sort of surrealism takes hold of Noble's heart. Is it surrealism? The madness, the adrenaline before that brought them to this ship, now void. It's quiet; the ringing, she hates it. What were they doing before all this standing around arguing? Running? Killing? Dying? Snarking? Where is the Arbiter? Where is Master Chief? The flood of questions swirl around her head. What is she trying to find?

It seems a deluge of reflection is upon her. Shouldn't she be scavenging, instead of trying to think on troubles that do not exist?

Ya, right.

"Cassie," Queen calls, suddenly alert. Strange, she never calls Noble by her first name. She quickly looks down, eyes refocusing, only to discover that she's staring at a dark pedestal.

"Look," Queen says again, presumably by speakers. "Out the window."

The ringing is gone, where is the silence? Something shines into the cabin. White, the light is white. Noble turns to look.

At the sight, she seizes, hands groping for her rifle, only to realize that somewhere, during her time aboard, she had dropped it.


	2. Chapter 2

She yawns. 

"You alright, Commander?" Jacob asks.

She waves him off, blinking away tears. "I'm good," she reassures the security chief. She turns towards the cockpit, gripping the railing. “Alright EDI, sing to me.”

Legion, the machine construct, swings a look at her, eyeplates fluttering in confusion. The rest of the crowd simply waits for the response.

“What would you like me to-“

“She means the ship,” Tali dryly says, rather impatient. Nobody blames the Quarian; earlier, Joker said she was practically smacking herself against the viewport, begging to have a closer look at the newfound wreck.

“Ah,” the AI computes.

On the bridge, some of the Normandy’s ex-Cerberus crew, including the ground team, is crowded into the pilot’s cabin, where the expanse of space can be seen. The low hum and the occasional venting of systems permeate the small chatter amongst one or two of the small audience, while the rest stares intently outside the frigate. About a hundred kilometres from them, a small object can be seen in the darkness of space, exposed in the illumination of the nearest sun. The derelict is a black, boxy structure. It has neither form nor fashion. Rocky embossments of the superstructure cover the surface of the ship. From an expanded image given by EDI, miniscule debris surrounds the ship; either parts of it or its contents. Lying, decrepit, like a decommissioned station, the ship is just like the thing that an Asari pencil-pusher glazing over spreadsheets would forget to slate for salvage.

"I'd say somebody hired shoddy architects," Donnelly comments, EDI's introduction interrupted once again. Someone in white armour with the words N7 emblazoned on the pauldrons gives the Scottish technician a glance, who mutters an apology.

Shepard turns back to the visible wreck, giving it a once-over. It's true, and not just by Donnelly’s standards. Shepard notes how ugly it looks: asymmetrical, colourless, and an imposing design that makes one feel a little uncomfortable looking at it, much unlike the sleek, streamlined models of any modern vessel. If it were old, there'd be rust, sure. Battle-scars too, as memory and inference can piece together the old beauty one might use to have. This ship, however, isn't ugly by reasons of age or warfare. This ship is made ugly.

"EDI," Shepard prompts the AI for a second time.

“Time of discovery was 0344 Terran, March 13, 2185 CE, four months after the Alpha relay incident.” EDI begins, “While on patrol, the Normandy intercepted an emergency distress signal 2.4 sectors away from our path trajectory crossing the Attican Traverse. Closer inspection via second-wave scanning reveals a frigate-sized depowered vessel, and frequency was interpreted as 243 MHz emitted by an ELT.”

“That’s a military signal,” Miranda supplies, standing behind Joker’s leather seat.

Shepard rubs her chin, “What’s a warship doing in lawless space?” She glances at the blue orb next to Joker. “EDI?”

“Our database on all non-civil activity in the area does not match the vessel’s location and cause of destruction,” the AI pleasantly drones. “Its proportions, structural composition, and ID signature is unknown to the Alliance directory.”

Shepard frowns. Most navies of the galaxy can and had modified their ship designs to resemble almost an entirely different class. However, those always had an original, traceable blueprint. If EDI can’t fathom what it is…

She turns to Garrus for answers. The armoured turian only shrugs. “I doubt you’ll get much answers from me,” he replies to the unspoken question, “considering how long I’ve been away from Palaven. But if you want to know: no, the last completed prototype was the Normandy. Whatever the Primarchs might be cooking up is either still in the shipyard, or blocked by your average bureaucrat."

Shepard, without pause, swivels to Mordin. The scarred Salarian blinks once, twice.

“Shepard. Nope, nada, nothing. Your suspicions are misgivings, misinformation, misdirection," he spills out in his rapid-fire fashion."Super-secret ships are not STG specialty. Alas, I’m only partially in the loop. It’s very possible that the Salarian has been developing something that I’m not privy of." He smiles. "Not yet, anyways." 

“Huh,” Shepard grunts, thinking of options. Mordin was her best bet for information; he and Miranda, who seems equally uninformed by her uncharacteristic silence. Shepard scans the rest of the bridge. Most face her, awaiting her orders. Some stares at the vid-screens, absorbed by the wreck, attempting to ascertain what it is. Her frown turns flat, her eyebrows crease. As it appears, none of her crew knows exactly what the vessel is. Some scratch their arms, fluff their beards, or shake the frills on the back of their neck, trying to ascertain what it might be that ended up in one of the galaxy’s more treacherous place. 

“Commander, if I may,” EDI breaks the stalemate, “there is an interesting note on the ship that you should be aware of.”

“Just a note? Really? I think this is massive.” Joker pipes up. He swivels his chair, almost hitting Miranda, who backs off with a scowl.

"Commander, EDI and I ran some tests with the scans a moment before you came up. We were trying to find traces of material residue, maybe find out what happened here." He grins, the kind that Shepard would always expect when he reveals a joke. "What we did find – and Tali, you're going to love this – There's no trace of eezo."

The only Quarian in the crowd makes a small gasp. The chattering quietly dies. Every eye rests on the digitally enlarged image of the wreck, their interests peaked.

"That's a terrible joke," Zaeed voices his gruff opinion, leaning against the hull crossed arms.

"Jeff is correct." EDI comes to the rescue. "In addition to the lack of element zero signatures, preliminary 3D imagery reveals what appears to be the power core. The device matches no design of an FTL drive, nor does it follow engineering conventions to utilize element zero. In short, this depowered vessel does not run on any known form of interstellar travel."

The old mercenary grunts.

"Keelah," Tali whispers, "are we looking at a new species?"

"It could be the Geth," Miranda hypothesizes. "For all we know, it could be anybody who discovered new way to travel the galaxy."

"Not even the Geth would build something this ugly," Garrus counters, his voice sporting a curious flange. "Besides, if it is, they’re pretty far from home. How'd they manage to get here from the Perseus Veil past the Terminus System?"

"The same reason why it doesn't run on eezo," Shepard finishes. She straightens in front of the bridge, straining herself so that everybody can see her. She puts a hand on Joker's chair to steady herself. Mouth setting on a serious line, her eyes alert.

"We don't know what's in that ship. We don't know what is that ship. What we do know, however, is that somebody sent a distress signal. Frankly, there's little distinction if it's Geth, Batarian, or a Giant Baby War Machine. If they're stranded, they're sure as hell going to want help. And I highly doubt that they won't refuse an offer from one Commander Shepard. We're going in, find out what's going on, and pick up anybody that's dead, alive, or somewhere in between." She glances at the holoscreen of the wreck. "Broadly speaking, I'm pretty alright with helping someone new around town." A pause. Shepard looks over her crew, her charge, her band of dysfunctional killers, "If I may be so humble - I'm sure you all know - we need all the help we can get."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s not as if the entire ship was lit up.

Half remains in complete blackness, hidden from the intense gaze of the star it's orbiting. Shepard ordered the operations to be conducted in the black, to shield them from the radiation. The Normandy provided the illumination they needed to work with. Miranda almost strangled Joker to prevent him from toying with the lights to play like a disco ball. Even so, when they work properly, the lights only covered a sixth of the dead ship’s vertical surface. So they focused on one side, working solely on the breach where the most openings and salvage can be made. Otherwise, the crew has what they need for this operation.

The star does not have a name. Instead, it was given a designation like countless others, catalogued for survey, then absently forgotten mid-process by the same accountant. Small, cold, but bright and old, it’s another red dwarf in the vast expanse of the galaxy. It has no planets, no asteroid fields, nothing of note. Nothing permanent, at least, until one shipwreck appears in its influence. What's it doing here? Where did it come from? Crewmen of the Normandy whisper and gossip amongst themselves these questions as they toil on keep the frigate running at an efficiency fit for the illustrious Commander Shepard.

Tali doesn’t care; what concerns her at the moment is an intact depowered object fixed between two jutting bars. Left dangerously close to the edge of the void, it is another testament to the remarkable resilience of the items Tali and the Normandy's engineers have found. Salvaging for the good parts is easy and bountiful. While the hull is another story entirely, most of the technology she finds remains seemingly whole.

Mag-boots locked, the other hand keeping her effectively pinned to the hull, she, breathes, slowly prying the item out of the wedge with practiced ease. Three fingers accomplishing in seconds what five can do in minutes. Carefully, weightlessly, Tali brings it close to examine it, opening up her personal flashlight. Complementary to space, dust and signs of age are lacking; the device remains what could've been its past condition before the destruction of its ship. A few circuits torn from an opening is the only sign of damage sustained, while the hexagonal-rectangular casing only appears to be scratched.

She knows why Shepard chose her to lead the salvage team. The few years in the Pilgrimage brought her experience, taught her how to look for the easily missed salvage, and nobody can take apart an object as efficiently as a Quarian. Miranda expressed concerns for operating a salvage crew in an unknown derelict, but EDI assured her.

//

"You say it's dead?" Shepard asks back on the Normandy, "not, 'Reaper' dead? Because I'm still having nightmares about that drop we did for the Reaper IFF."

"Confirmed," EDI replies. "Unlike a Reaper, the ship's internal masking is inadequate for Normandy's sensors, and various hull points are pointedly inferior to modern vessels. It is, for all intents and purposes, defunct."

"Alright, EDI, I'll hold your word to that."

"I am reasonably confident in my analytical capabilities."

Joker snickers in the background, only for Jack to sharply elbow him with a solid thwack.

//

“Tali? I got news,” her earpiece sounds off loud and clear, jarring Tali. Jacob’s voice rings with clarity. “The Council’s making its move,” it slightly echoes in the confines of her helmet, juxtaposed by the dead silence of space. Tali breaks away from what she is doing with a piece of salvage to look at the man’s suited figure clanking a short distance away from her, towards her.

“What did they say?” Tali radios. An involuntary bump in her heart rate starts, a small notification briefly flickering on her peripherals. She puts the salvage down; she’s been waiting for this.

“They haven’t said anything yet. I got the news from Joker, who’s been in contact with Liara. I just came to tell you what her… ah,” Jacob slows a step, his tone changing, “her friends, they say. Still have some digging to do, but from what they've heard, the Council’s agreeing to a round of talks.

“Oh,” Tali lets loose. She didn't intend to sound disappointed.

“It’s not the best of news, but I’m sure-“

She waves a hand, stopping Jacob. Tali picks up the piece of salvage she was examining. “I’m not unhappy, Jacob. I wasn't taking it that way.” With the piece in hand, she lifts from her crouch, consciously checking that her boots are mag-locked to the hull. “There’s a lot to think about from what you've just said, that’s all.”

“Well, glad you see it that way,” Jacob says. “As I was about to say, I’m sure it’s just negotiation in the works. I don’t see how they’ll pass up this offer.”

He won’t see her smile. “Maybe, thanks Jacob, but I'd like to keep working.” Tali turns her back to the Officer, reaching to fit the salvage into a large, yellow container, with all the other pieces.

“Alright then, stay safe.” Giving her a curt nod, Jacob departs in the direction where Gabriella is examining a large fragment of the ship. The only living figure walks away from Tali’s enclosed sights, leaving her on the vast expanse of the hull.

She closes the container’s lid with a weighty thump, locking and blinking a stingy red to indicate its seal. Although filled with salvage, the container is weightless and hanging on an angle to the hull. Around them, the Normandy’s floodlights slowly dance, reflecting off a thousand and one pieces, space hulks, and molecules, of the destroyed ship.

With focus back on her mind, Tali positions herself from the beam as a base point. Carefully, slowly, she jumps across a hole, a moment of unopposed momentum. A glint of light hits her, a tiny gap that cuts across the entirety of the ship, exposing her to the sun's might; It passes, then she latches onto a protruding wire on the other side, darkened against the Normandy's artificial lights.

The Council might be announcing their intentions to continue, but behind the airlock, as they always have done, something else happens. Maybe a ploy to extort the Migrant Fleet, maybe, but it’s not them Tali’s worried about – not the dealings, the compromises, and the diplomacy. Actually, she’s worried about the general sentiment of other races, the politicians –the ones always looking for avenues of support, the ones looking to feed off their fears. The Quarians have never been well liked, unwelcome. Who’s to blame them when a nervous patrolman operating in Citadel Space accidentally fires at them when the fleet of an entire race jumped into the system?

Focus, Tali. Do your job. “Kenneth,” Tali contacts the engineer via radio, “How’s your end?”

“Bloody fine, if that’s a good answer,” his cheap, Scots accent ringing loud and irritated. “We’ve found a ton of fancy parts, got a bulk of it. Four full containers and counting; you’d think this would've been the cargo hold if it wasn't so in damned pieces."

"Okay...” She sweeps her tiny flashlight across the exposed innards, illuminating the dark mass of wreckage. “Any problems?"

"Uhh, Well. I don't think it's right to say, might be just us, but...”

Tali frowns, securing herself onto the hull feet-first.  
“Electronics we collected? Some of them – bits of them started disappearing. Small ones, then entire components.”

Tali almost raspberries, “I’ve had more than enough of new mysteries in one day. Did you consider watching Daniels, maybe yourself?”

“It wasn’t Gabby, or me, I swear on me mum.” He drops his voice to a hoarse whisper, “I think I know what’s going on. All I need is one of your EMPs.”

She blinks, looking up from the path of debris. “An Overload?”

“Yeh, just one."

“Kenneth, that’s an omni-tool mod. I can’t just hand one out to you. If you need me over there, just ask.”

“Stop trying to break my pride, Gabby’s already laughing at me.” Kenneth sounds frustrated, “I seriously, seriously think there’s someone stealing stuff. If you can just help catc– I see her!” Kenneth abruptly stops. Tali whips her head in surprise.

“Hey thief! Sto – wait, wait, wait don’t touch that!” Kenneth yells out, forgetting his radio is still receiving. “Oi! Kasumi! That’s not yours!”

"How did Ka-" Tali stutters. She whips her head to the Normandy. A shudder passing under Miranda’s piercing glare convinces her it's not Joker's fault.

"Samara," The Justicar was supposed to keep watch. After a small incident before the Collector base assault, Shepard asked the Justicar to inform her if Kasumi ever tries to enter any restricted area. Samara could sense her surroundings during her meditation, and her room being placed right in the intersection to Kasumi's gave her the perfect vision. As far as Tali knows, nothing came out of it.

Okay, this could be a problem. "Donnelly! Keep her there, I'll get Jacob." Tali swings a feet across the hull, using the weightless momentum to float across and catch previously placed container with minimum fuss.  
"I can hear you, you know.” It wasn't Donnelly. The thief playfully broadcasts her presence into the comm channel. Tali groans. She yanks the yellow barrel with her, bearing down on the hull, and stomps to the staging point. "I swear, Kasumi... if you're going to break the agreement, can't you do it on a planet?"

"First off, my pockets aren't filled with Shepard's stuff, I can't be breaking the agreement if she doesn't own this ship we're on. Second, on ground? Like a plebeian?" Tali can hear a scoff. "Please, I'm first-rate, not even zero-g can stop me."

"We're on a ship, not even the Normandy. The salvage's for Mordin, and that's ‘Shepard's stuff’. "

"It's not if it's still here. Pretty sure Mordin isn't here."

"This is a mission," Tali hisses, "a hundred things can happen. We don't know what trouble we might get into at any time, and your pranks aren’t helping."

"Relax; I'm just having a bit of fun - oh, one second." Tali can hear Donnelly yelling on the other side of the comms. A second voice, Daniels, can be heard, albeit much farther away. Scuffling and grunting takes up much of what Tali receives. When Kasumi comes back, her voice was a little breathless.  
"Okay, what were we arguing about?"

Tali is close enough to see the embossment of the hull, blocking her view. Past that is the rally point. "Drop the salvage, leave Donnelly and Evans alone, and return to the Normandy."

"Can we negotiate?"

"You boshtet-"

"Ladies," Shepard appears into the scene. The channel instantly dies, cooling as she makes her appearance, “I don't have to babysit you all every time I'm gone, do I?" Nobody responds. The Commander takes it as cue to continue. "I’m not about to start disciplining a bunch of professional babies under my command – I don’t have to tell the galaxy’s best of the best on how to play nice.”

Silence, Tali remains still.

“So please, please don’t make me change how I run this ship.”

Shepard audibly breathes, her tone changes, dropping the condemning voice. ” Tali, Jacob's already on the case, I need you to on the ball with your job. As for you, Master Thief... half the fancy technobobbles, no datacores."

"Right, no datacores." Kasumi cheerfully responds. It’s as if she expected this. Tali's irritation peaks. "wouldn't want me selling it to a salarian."

"I want minimum fuss people." Shepard continues with anything but cheer, "now's not the time for anger, anger, hate, hate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sloppiness is real.

**Author's Note:**

> Like it? Hate it? Say something! I can't care if it's outright praise or deadly flame.  
> But hey, I hope you enjoyed this beginning. There should be more soon. In the meantime, thank you for reading!


End file.
